April 16. Evening, Paris, Hotel ---.--There is no overtaking her at this
place; but she has been here, as I thought, no other hotel in Paris being
known to her. We go on to-morrow morning.
April 18. Venice.--A morning of adventures and emotions which leave me
sick and weary, and yet unable to sleep, though I have lain down on the
sofa of my room for more than an hour in the attempt. I therefore make
up my diary to date in a hurried fashion, for the sake of the riddance it
affords to ideas which otherwise remain suspended hotly in the brain.
We arrived here this morning in broad sunlight, which lit up the sea-girt
buildings as we approached so that they seemed like a city of cork
floating raft-like on the smooth, blue deep. But I only glanced from the
carriage window at the lovely scene, and we were soon across the
intervening water and inside the railway station. When we got to the
front steps the row of black gondolas and the shouts of the gondoliers so
bewildered my father that he was understood to require two gondolas
instead of one with two oars, and so I found him in one and myself in
another. We got this righted after a while, and were rowed at once to
the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni where M. de la Feste had been
staying when we last heard from him, the way being down the Grand Canal
for some distance, under the Rialto, and then by narrow canals which
eventually brought us under the Bridge of Sighs--harmonious to our
moods!--and out again into open water. The scene was purity itself as to
colour, but it was cruel that I should behold it for the first time under
such circumstances.
As soon as I entered the hotel, which is an old-fashioned place, like
most places here, where people are taken en pension as well as the
ordinary way, I rushed to the framed list of visitors hanging in the
hall, and in a moment I saw Charles's name upon it among the rest. But
she was our chief thought. I turned to the hall porter, and--knowing
that she would have travelled as 'Madame de la Feste'--I asked for her
under that name, without my father hearing. (He, poor soul, was making
confused inquiries outside the door about 'an English lady,' as if there
were not a score of English ladies at hand.)
'She has just come,' said the porter. 'Madame came by the very early
train this morning, when Monsieur was asleep, and she requested us not to
disturb him. She is now in her room.'
Whether Caroline had seen us from the window, or overheard me, I do not
know, but at that moment I heard footsteps on the bare marble stairs, and
she appeared in person descending.
'Caroline!' I exclaimed, 'why have you done this?' and rushed up to her.
She did not answer; but looked down to hide her emotion, which she
conquered after the lapse of a few seconds, putting on a practical tone
that belied her.
'I am just going to my husband,' she said. 'I have not yet seen him. I
have not been here long.' She condescended to give no further reason for
her movements, and made as if to move on. I implored her to come into a
private room where I could speak to her in confidence, but she objected.
However, the dining-room, close at hand, was quite empty at this hour,
and I got her inside and closed the door. I do not know how I began my
explanation, or how I ended it, but I told her briefly and brokenly
enough that the marriage was not real.
'Not real?' she said vacantly.
'It is not,' said I. 'You will find that it is all as I say.'
She could not believe my meaning even then. 'Not his wife?' she cried.
'It is impossible. What am I, then?'
I added more details, and reiterated the reason for my conduct as well as
I could; but Heaven knows how very difficult I found it to feel a jot
more justification for it in my own mind than she did in hers.
The revulsion of feeling, as soon as she really comprehended all, was
most distressing. After her grief had in some measure spent itself she
turned against both him and me.
'Why should have I been deceived like this?' she demanded, with a bitter
haughtiness of which I had not deemed such a tractable creature capable.
'Do you suppose that anything could justify such an imposition? What, O
what a snare you have spread for me!'
I murmured, 'Your life seemed to require it,' but she did not hear me.
She sank down in a chair, covered her face, and then my father came in.
'O, here you are!' he said. 'I could not find you. And Caroline!'
'And were you, papa, a party to this strange deed of kindness?'
'To what?' said he.
Then out it all came, and for the first time he was made acquainted with
the fact that the scheme for soothing her illness, which I had sounded
him upon, had been really carried out. In a moment he sided with
Caroline. My repeated assurance that my motive was good availed less
than nothing. In a minute or two Caroline arose and went abruptly out of
the room, and my father followed her, leaving me alone to my reflections.
I was so bent upon finding Charles immediately that I did not notice
whither they went. The servants told me that M. de la Feste was just
outside smoking, and one of them went to look for him, I following; but
before we had gone many steps he came out of the hotel behind me. I
expected him to be amazed; but he showed no surprise at seeing me, though
he showed another kind of feeling to an extent which dismayed me. I may
have revealed something similar; but I struggled hard against all
emotion, and as soon as I could I told him she had come. He simply said
'Yes' in a low voice.
'You know it, Charles?' said I.
'I have just learnt it,' he said.
'O, Charles,' I went on, 'having delayed completing your marriage with
her till now, I fear--it has become a serious position for us. Why did
you not reply to our letters?'
'I was purposing to reply in person: I did not know how to address her on
the point--how to address you. But what has become of her?'
'She has gone off with my father,' said I; 'indignant with you, and
scorning me.'
He was silent: and I suggested that we should follow them, pointing out
the direction which I fancied their gondola had taken. As the one we got
into was doubly manned we soon came in view of their two figures ahead of
us, while they were not likely to observe us, our boat having the 'felze'
on, while theirs was uncovered. They shot into a narrow canal just
beyond the Giardino Reale, and by the time we were floating up between
its slimy walls we saw them getting out of their gondola at the steps
which lead up near the end of the Via 22 Marzo. When we reached the same
spot they were walking up and down the Via in consultation. Getting out
he stood on the lower steps watching them. I watched him. He seemed to
fall into a reverie.
'Will you not go and speak to her?' said I at length.
He assented, and went forward. Still he did not hasten to join them,
but, screened by a projecting window, observed their musing converse. At
last he looked back at me; whereupon I pointed forward, and he in
obedience stepped out, and met them face to face. Caroline flushed hot,
bowed haughtily to him, turned away, and taking my father's arm
violently, led him off before he had had time to use his own judgment.
They disappeared into a narrow calle, or alley, leading to the back of
the buildings on the Grand Canal.
M. de la Feste came slowly back; as he stepped in beside me I realized my
position so vividly that my heart might almost have been heard to beat.
The third condition had arisen--the least expected by either of us. She
had refused him; he was free to claim me.
We returned in the boat together. He seemed quite absorbed till we had
turned the angle into the Grand Canal, when he broke the silence. 'She
spoke very bitterly to you in the salle-a-manger,' he said. 'I do not
think she was quite warranted in speaking so to you, who had nursed her
so tenderly.'
'O, but I think she was,' I answered. 'It was there I told her what had
been done; she did not know till then.'
'She was very dignified--very striking,' he murmured. 'You were more.'
'But how do you know what passed between us,' said I. He then told me
that he had seen and heard all. The dining-room was divided by folding-
doors from an inner portion, and he had been sitting in the latter part
when we entered the outer, so that our words were distinctly audible.
'But, dear Alicia,' he went on, 'I was more impressed by the affection of
your apology to her than by anything else. And do you know that now the
conditions have arisen which give me liberty to consider you my
affianced?' I had been expecting this, but yet was not prepared. I
stammered out that we would not discuss it then.
'Why not?' said he. 'Do you know that we may marry here and now? She
has cast off both you and me.'
'It cannot be,' said I, firmly. 'She has not been fairly asked to be
your wife in fact--to repeat the service lawfully; and until that has
been done it would be grievous sin in me to accept you.'
I had not noticed where the gondoliers were rowing us. I suppose he had
given them some direction unheard by me, for as I resigned myself in
despairing indolence to the motion of the gondola, I perceived that it
was taking us up the Canal, and, turning into a side opening near the
Palazzo Grimani, drew up at some steps near the end of a large church.
'Where are we?' said I.
'It is the Church of the Frari,' he replied. 'We might be married there.
At any rate, let us go inside, and grow calm, and decide what to do.'
When we had entered I found that whether a place to marry in or not, it
was one to depress. The word which Venice speaks most
constantly--decay--was in a sense accentuated here. The whole large
fabric itself seemed sinking into an earth which was not solid enough to
bear it. Cobwebbed cracks zigzagged the walls, and similar webs clouded
the window-panes. A sickly-sweet smell pervaded the aisles. After
walking about with him a little while in embarrassing silences, divided
only by his cursory explanations of the monuments and other objects, and
almost fearing he might produce a marriage licence, I went to a door in
the south transept which opened into the sacristy.
I glanced through it, towards the small altar at the upper end. The
place was empty save of one figure; and she was kneeling here in front of
the beautiful altarpiece by Bellini. Beautiful though it was she seemed
not to see it. She was weeping and praying as though her heart was
broken. She was my sister Caroline. I beckoned to Charles, and he came
to my side, and looked through the door with me.
'Speak to her,' said I. 'She will forgive you.'
I gently pushed him through the doorway, and went back into the transept,
down the nave, and onward to the west door. There I saw my father, to
whom I spoke. He answered severely that, having first obtained
comfortable quarters in a pension on the Grand Canal, he had gone back to
the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni to find me; but that I was not
there. He was now waiting for Caroline, to accompany her back to the
pension, at which she had requested to be left to herself as much as
possible till she could regain some composure.
I told him that it was useless to dwell on what was past, that I no doubt
had erred, that the remedy lay in the future and their marriage. In this
he quite agreed with me, and on my informing him that M. de la Feste was
at that moment with Caroline in the sacristy, he assented to my proposal
that we should leave them to themselves, and return together to await
them at the pension, where he had also engaged a room for me. This we
did, and going up to the chamber he had chosen for me, which overlooked
the Canal, I leant from the window to watch for the gondola that should
contain Charles and my sister.
They were not long in coming. I recognized them by the colour of her
sunshade as soon as they turned the bend on my right hand. They were
side by side of necessity, but there was no conversation between them,
and I thought that she looked flushed and he pale. When they were rowed
in to the steps of our house he handed her up. I fancied she might have
refused his assistance, but she did not. Soon I heard her pass my door,
and wishing to know the result of their interview I went downstairs,
seeing that the gondola had not put off with him. He was turning from
the door, but not towards the water, intending apparently to walk home by
way of the calle which led into the Via 22 Marzo.
'Has she forgiven you?' said I.
'I have not asked her,' he said.
'But you are bound to do so,' I told him.
He paused, and then said, 'Alicia, let us understand each other. Do you
mean to tell me, once for all, that if your sister is willing to become
my wife you absolutely make way for her, and will not entertain any
thought of what I suggested to you any more?'
'I do tell you so,' said I with dry lips. 'You belong to her--how can I
do otherwise?'
'Yes; it is so; it is purely a question of honour,' he returned. 'Very
well then, honour shall be my word, and not my love. I will put the
question to her frankly; if she says yes, the marriage shall be. But not
here. It shall be at your own house in England.'
'When?' said I.
'I will accompany her there,' he replied, 'and it shall be within a week
of her return. I have nothing to gain by delay. But I will not answer
for the consequences.'
'What do you mean?' said I. He made no reply, went away, and I came back
to my room.